


Touch Faith

by radmerrmaid



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blasphemy, Catholic Guilt, Church Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Masturbation, Moral Ambiguity, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radmerrmaid/pseuds/radmerrmaid
Summary: You moved to the most recluse town you could think of to run away from the mistakes of your past. You didn’t expect to find redemption in the arms of the embodiment of sin, Father Barnes.priest!Bucky AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not catholic, my knowledge of church traditions and routines is limited to what Google could give me and from what I’ve seen in movies, so I took a lot of creative license with some stuff; that being said, do not expect accuracy. This fic contains a lot of fucked up stuff, please read the warnings and if you’re not comfortable with any of that, leave this post.  
> Dedicated to @corusxant, for helping with bible verses and support, and @buckysbackpackbuckle for being so excited about this and motivating me to finish it. I love you guys. This is all your fault.

If your mother could only see you right now.

You are currently in the exact place she always wanted you to be, dressed in a modest, almost virginal white dress, sitting on the third pew of the local church, eyes closed as you cross yourself, invoking the Holy Trinity; just like she always dreamed about. At long last, her little girl has found her way back to the right track, to become the pure, innocent, god-fearing woman she raised you to be.

But ever since you saw _him_ for the first time, faith and devotion has been the last thing on your mind.

Your fingers are anxiously rubbing the beads of an old rosary, eyes fixed on it, purposely avoiding the altar, decorated with a statue of Jesus in a cross, representing His great sacrifice, giving His life so you could be saved and cleaned from your filthy transgressions. 

It’s a rainy Sunday morning but the church’s still packed. The seats are all filled with smiling faces, loud children and beautiful families, all dressed up with the same prim as you. You recognize a few of your new neighbors, and people you already made conversation with. They smile and wave at you, but never approach you to make conversation, scrambling to find their seats to watch the mass. Although this town in particular is too small for your liking, it was a good place to hide; no one would care to look for you there, and the façade of the beautiful and young widow of a war veteran quickly earned you the sympathy of the locals, though it didn’t save you from the social pressure of having to attend the service.

You didn’t have much of a good experience with religious people, or even with religion itself. Your behavior and your own nature didn’t tend to go well with what was considered right and appropriate for you as a woman; you could summarize the whole experience with one of the things your mother used to say to you when you were a teenager while she dragged you out of the confessionary: _you are a dirty little whore and you will always be a whore, there’s no hope for you, your soul already belongs to the Devil._

With that being said, there’s a reason as to why you feel so anxious once you enter the sanctuary. It has never been a place that made you feel comfortable or safe, and being under God’s judgement always brought you shame and humiliation.

You usually would not spend more than five minutes inside a place like this, but after your first visit, you continue to attend to almost every service provided by that parish, and at first you tell yourself it’s because it does wonders to maintain your cover as a good and devout widow to your nosy neighbors, but the reality is another, an atrocious and sinful reason that brings you to the church almost daily, that keeps you glued to the bench even though you are inside your least favorite place in the world, and that reason makes his way every day to the front with long steps, smiling softly at the parishioners.

Father Barnes.

The stained glass of the windows casts a stunning light in the corridors of the temple, and it was that light that showered his figured while he walked to the altar. The cassock he was wearing was plain, very unlikely the exaggerated vestments of the priests you were used to, totally black and modest in details, the decorous white collar seemed to glow somehow, but even under those robes – with the help of a very immoral imagination – you could easily make out his broad shoulders, sturdy arms and hands covered by black gloves. Leather, you notice, interest already picked, but you remained still, and even though your eyes were following father Barnes with every step he took towards the front, you head continued down, your hands clasped around each other, resting upon your thighs, rosary dangling from your fingers.

Since the first time you saw him, you couldn’t keep yourself away.

He’s tall, heavily built, with enticing blue eyes and a smile that is reserved, shy, rare. His hair is long and dark, always tied in a knot in the back of his neck, although some rebel strands always ended up falling in his face, for your complete delight, because watching his leather-covered fingers sweep his hair behind his ear was a blessing in itself. His sturdy and downright _sinful_ jawline is always covered by a thin dust of dark hair, and he has a particular way of standing, stern, almost stealthily, but without erasing his incontestable kind nature. There’s a different energy coming from him, too strong, some kind of charm that emanate from his very presence that attracted you in a way you could not explain; it left you completely enraptured by everything about him, and in the middle of your delirious and corrupt thoughts, you could sense a certain bleakness in him, buried deep inside. Father Barnes had a history, you could tell only by his eyes that for some reason never lingered on you for too long.

You are way past the point of admitting the depraved nature of your appreciation for him, and some of your firsts thoughts concerning his priesthood were _what a goddamn waste_ , but as soon as he opened his mouth, you quickly change your mind. That man was born for it, to proclaim order and worship, a rough voice, seemingly crafted specially to show devotion, and as Father Barnes enthused about God’s grace, justice and undying love, you hold the fabric of your skirt tightly, thinking about that man’s voice as he knelt before you, fingers running softly through the skin of your inner thighs, muttering the God’s word against it.

_"Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins;  
the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul…”_

You are becoming a more frequent member of the church with each and every passing day, attending mass and other meetings with astonishing dedication. When the service starts at 7am, you’re already there, and at the evening reunion, you’re there too. It’s hard to get used to being inside a church again, there’s a huge part of you that feels like shit for even entertaining sinful thoughts and purposefully seeking to feed them by lying to people and to God Himself, accompanying the prayers and repeating that you regret your sins when in reality, you are fueling your indecent appetite for the unholy, your needs becoming more and more fierce and brutal as every little action brings your closer to him, a lingering stare he gives you accidentally, or when he clears his throat and lick those full, pink lips, ready to give his sermon and you inhale sharply, heart racing, hands clutching your rosary until your knuckles are white, completely focused on every little detail about him.

 _“I’m going straight to hell_ ; you think to yourself as Father Barnes strokes his cheek with a hand covered by leather, your thighs quivering with unwavering want, pure, raw; thoughts wandering to the feel of his stubble of his stubble across your skin. You can almost feel the weight of the cross behind you craved into the stained glass, and also the phantom pain of your mother’s pinch on your arm whenever you said or did anything inappropriate inside of Church.

_“… with confidence let us ask the Father's forgiveness, for he is full of gentleness and compassion...”_

His voice is so sweet, but rough at the same time, flowing smoothly throughout the hall, filled with passion as he calls upon God to drive him away from his sins, to forgive him for his dishonor and weakness and bless him with grace, love and strength and _damn it_ if you weren’t soaking wet already, the scorching heat of his words going straight to your core as you listen to it intently with your eyes glued to the object of your filthy and disgusting desires, barely managing to accompany the parish in a croaked “Lord, have mercy” in response to his sermon. 

Whenever you’re not lusting after Father Barnes, you try to figured out the subtlest way to approach him without giving away your sinful nature. You’re not sure exactly what endgame you have in mind, but the current scenario, in which he’s barely even aware of your existence, is not the ideal one; you are a fairly attractive woman, the city is ridiculous small and come on, he probably does know you exist, just not in the way you want him too. So that’s why you decided to befriend a middle-aged woman who sits beside you at mass, turning on your charm and flattering her with a shy smile and friendly conversation, to ask her about the priest, but not before casually mentioning your late husband and hinting your complete desolation upon your lost, just to throw her off your real intent. She, as everyone else, completely loves him, providing you with testimonials about his unwavering kindness, helpfulness and a few rumors about his past.

_“Oh, that’s Father Barnes. He’s originally from New York, but he has been with us for a few years after our last priest died. He is so wise and kind, a true blessing to our parish and to our city, and he is a veteran too, you should talk to him! I’m sure he can offer some great advice!”_

Oh, I’m pretty sure Father Barnes can offer me a lot of great things, Martha.

You bite your lip, glancing a look at Jesus in the cross while Martha happily walks out of the Church. It’s graphic, it’s raw, and it sends you straight to your younger years, when your mother used to tell you how much He suffered so you could bask into the warmth and purity or Heaven once you died, but only if you truly regretted your wrongful ways. Your fists clench at your sides, feeling the sharp twinge of guilt again.

“It’s just a statue.” 

Your head whip around and you find him standing only a few feet away from you. He wore a suit to today’s mass, for your complete and utterly ruin, black, still no details whatsoever, except for the starched white collar, deliciously covering his huge body up to the pale skin of his neck. His hands are buried inside his pockets and he’s leaning against a bench, casually, a reserved smile in his pink lips while he looks away from Jesus and focus his blue, blue orbs on you.

“I’m sorry?” you breathe, blinking a few times to pull your mind off the darker thoughts swimming there, trying to clear it, but Father Barnes’s presence makes it so damn difficult. The corner of his mouth rises a bit, and he points briefly to the altar.

“ _Him._ ” You look at where he’s pointing, the marble statue that you were staring at before, washed by the orange light of the sun setting, and you notice briefly, a red alarm going inside your brain, that you are all alone with him.

You bite your lip, suddenly feeling a little exposed. You didn’t plan for Father Barnes to approach you for the first time during one of you self-deprecating moments. “You won’t get what you’re looking for in a statue.” He continues, “Trust me, I tried.” He adds a little chuckle, but it’s dry.

“I know” you clear your throat, and when you look at him again, he’s eyeing you curiously, and you smile charmingly. “Don’t know if He can give me what I need, though” you add, and even though you weren’t planning on it, it sounds suggestive. He raises an eyebrow, but otherwise seems oblivious to it. 

“You would be surprised, my child” he says kindly. Either he didn’t notice your flirtation or decided to ignore it, you’re not sure. You give a few steps towards him and offer your hand.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Y/N, I’m new in town.”

You absolutely notice when he tensed upon seeing you getting closed, and how his smile disappears and gives place to a more reserved expression. He must have notice the change in your mood, but he accepts your introduction anyway.

“Father Barnes.” He slowly offers his left hand for you, covered by the leather glove and when you shake it, you feel solid material instead of flesh, and you glance at it, raising an eyebrow. You remember some of the people you’ve talked to mentioning he lost an arm during the war. He quickly recoils his hand as if you hurt him, and shoves it inside his pocket again, and he clear his throat. “But James is enough.”

“I didn’t see anyone calling you James, father” you tease, shooting him a grin and he looks away, smiling, but apparently caught off-guard.

“Yeah, it’s, uh” he brings a hand to swipe a strand of hair from his eyes and put it behind his ear. “I’m just Father Barnes for them.” He adds, and you are amazed by how gorgeous he is, so adorable, so fucking hot and god damn it, if he could see what you were picturing now, he would probably ask you to leave his church, or maybe the goddamn city. Father James towers over you even with the extra inches of your shoes and he looks so much bigger up close, right in front of you, with a bashful smile and blue eyes twinkling; making you think that the fact that this man abstained himself of having sex for the rest of his life in order to serve God is the real sin in all of this.

“Are you going to be _Father James_ for me, then?” you say in a mocking tone, just so he knows you’re joking. Father James actually fucking _blushes_ , just a tiny little hint of color on his cheekbones, and you melt right there. He shakes his head, as if acknowledging how he walked right into that one.

“I’ve heard about you.” He changes the subject, purposefully directing you to the spotlight. “It is unusual for us to receive someone willing to stay here, so you’ve been quite the talk of the town.”

Oh, so he knows who you are.

“Is that so?” you ask, changing your feet and eyeing him playfully. “What have you been hearing about me, father?”

He pretends to think about it for a while, looking up to the ceiling and when his eyes go back to yours, there’s a glint of mischief that sends a spark of excitement through you.  
“Well, that you’re from New York, that you recently lost your husband in some tragic way, and that you were looking for a quiet place to settle down and try to move on.” He clicks his tongue. “That you’re kind, generous, friendly.”

And then, he smiles at you, a secretive smile, and he fucking winks.

Oh, there he is.

Father Barnes see right through your bullshit.

He can see right past your little sad story. And that’s the only reason you decide, in less than 5 seconds:

_fuck it, I’m going for it._

“That’s me.” You say, pretending not to notice how that’s really too much of information for someone whom you just met. “This town has been very good to me in this trying times, so I decided to stay and start over.” And just because you’re a sinner and you absolutely cannot help yourself, you add: “this church in particular has been really great.” You get a little closer, just a tiny little step but his body seizes up, blinking a few times fast as you pour as much devotion in your voice as him in his sermons. “Your words are beautiful, father. Listening to your sermons is so good to my very soul, you are so talented.” And you give one last step towards him, reaching the point where you’re _too close_ , not enough to be inappropriate, but enough to make him uncomfortable, and just to make it clear about what you’re really trying to communicate, you direct a hand to his shoulder and squeeze just a bit, feeling the warm and hard muscle give under your palm. His entire body tenses with your touch, fix your hands with apprehensive eyes, swallow thickly around nothing and redirects his gaze to you, searching your whole face, eyes lingering on your lips as you finish, in a whisper, closing your eyes as you’re savoring the words in your tongue:

_“A true messenger of God.”_

Father Barnes gasps.

Oh, _fuck._

You were so scared of this. Because until now, this… perverted thoughts and wants were one-sided, you were used to being the immoral one, you were the only one sinning, but this. No, this changes everything, you think, as your heart beats faster and you can’t heart anything but the loud ringing in your ears, and blue eyes staring into yours; this isn’t just me being the repulsive little girl I have always been.

_He wants it too._

“Thank you” he answers with a choked voice, and then clears his throat, hazy eyes closing, and then opening, a little clearer “I really do hope you continued to attend the service with our parish.” he continues, bashful, not meeting your eyes. _Interesting._

“Oh, yes, Father.” you agree, and he swallow thickly again, his eyes dropping to measure the distance between your bodies. “I intend too.” Your thoughts are freely travelling south, to all the other circumstances in which you would be muttering those words “ _yes, father_ ”, to every other action James could perform to get you to praise him, to his delicious blue eyes travelling through your body. He eyes you a little more reserved, stern, and you choose this moment to end the whole situation. 

You step back, starting to make to the door.

But he stops you.

“Confessions are held every afternoon until 9 pm.” he says a little louder, voice echoing in the empty hall.

He must have probably read your thoughts, or at least sensed the innuendo on your voice. You stop, heart beating loudly in your ears, and you bite your lip, squeezing your thighs together.  
At this point, he probably thinks you’re some sinning whore, who’s not only a liar but also an adulterer, looking to corrupt a man of the cloth. Well, he is absolutely right. But how did he know? How did he know all you could think about during that whole interaction was to suck his soul through his cock until he was crying and begging you please to let him come? That twisted guilt downs on your full force while you turn around and nod a him, bidding him good night and quickly leaving the Church, hoping you don’t get hit by a lighting on your way home. Or while you lay at home at night, hands inside your panties reminiscing Father James blushing cheeks and rough voice and wandering eyes, getting yourself off to the thoughts of a man who has committed himself to God and God only, and while you’re at it, three-finger deep into your pussy, you can help but thinking about how wrong and fucked up and wrong wrong _wrong_ all of this is, that thought alone is what pushes right off the edge and you’re coming, clutching your sheets and gasping into your pillows.

__

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

__

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No smut yet, sorry! I struggled too much to write this one, it was supposed to be waaaaaay longer but I decided to cut it short so you guys wouldn’t wait any longer. Enjoy and tell me what you think!

 

 You can’t really remember when was the last time you actually cared about the consequences of your sins, or even about Heaven and Hell.

Still, after many years of dismissing the entire conception of religion and God’s existence as a cruel myth and a personal offense, you found yourself standing inside of a Church in a rainy evening, ready to enter the confessional and list all your sins to the priest, anxiety and remorse twisting in your stomach.

There’s something sickening about how terribly nostalgic this situation feels. It reminds you of how many times you’ve been at that same place as a teenager, scared to death of the consequences of your impure acts. But there’s also a rush of excitement running through you, hot and electrifying, like when you used to sneak out after Sunday school to smoke cigarettes and make out behind the rectory, when the concept of sin was momentarily forgotten.

It has been almost two weeks since you talked to father Barnes, a conversation  that lit a fire in your belly that has been burning incessantly ever since; the whole interaction was seared into your brain, and you’ve been replaying it over and over again, paying special attention to the coldness of his solid hand, covered by smooth leather that left a ghost feeling in your palm, almost to the point of itching; or in the way he looked at you after your bold advance, with fervent blue eyes, his whole body going rigid, tense, shaking slightly with excitement, no doubt thinking, considering, maybe even picturing the possibility of breaking his vows _with you_.

You weren’t really used to feelings of guilt and second-guessing, especially when it came to the right or wrong aspect of an action, which is probably why there’s a trail of destruction, blood and misery behind you, consequences of your dubious and impulsive actions. Father Barnes is only the cherry on top of the moral and religious breakdown that led you into questioning your own nature and behavior. In the last two weeks, you’ve been sitting in the last bench of the temple, alone, praying nonstop for guidance and strength to make sense of what was going through your heart and mind, but your eyes never wavered, always glued to him, and if you had the feeling he was looking right back at you sometimes during his sermons, well, then maybe you were in too deep.

You are certain of one thing at the very least: defiling a man of the cloth isn’t really compatible with the lifestyle of a decent and respectful woman, and maybe you wouldn’t have any reservations about jumping him a few months ago, but you are _different_ now, and that’s why, after days of pondering and building up the courage, you decided that, in order to start fresh, to clean your conscience, you needed to come clean about who you truly are.

That brings you to the present scenario, standing just outside of the confession room, ready to give father Barnes a glimpse of your hopeless and devious soul.

In the back of your head, in the middle of the whirling mess of thoughts, there’s a cynical voice that sounds too much like your mother insistently reminding you that you’ve never been successful at resisting your indecent desires and urges.

Maybe the Devil was too deep inside of you. You desperately wanted to fuck a priest. Even for you, that was an entire different level of fucked up.

_"Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins; the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins…”_

You step inside the confessional, closing the door behind you and settling into the uncomfortable bench. The room is typically small and smells almost the same as the confessional of the church you used to go as a kid, a mixture of common rue, wood and traces of smoke from the burning incense. There’s a flickering light casting a yellow glow to the whole cubicle, the atmosphere is too familiar and reminds you of how much this whole process used to make you anxious. It’s enough to make you nervous, the heavy lighting makes it hard for you to see anything, and the only thing you’re hearing over the thumping of your own heart is the thunderous rain pouring outside. You’re already shaking with anticipation, and you wipe your sweaty palms in the fabric of your skirt.

The screen is closed from the previous confession, and the only way for you to see anything on the other side is through small holes in the wall that separates you from the priest. You choose to leave it like that, you’re already too nervous about doing this, the last thing you need is father Barnes’s strong, heated gaze on you while you open your heart and soul to him.

Or maybe you need it too much.

One more reason to leave it closed.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, the door to the other side opens, letting in a sudden rush of cold air and also the presence of father Barnes, that quickly settles into his chair, noisily scrapping it against the floor while he apologizes briefly for his delay. You gasp, taken completely by surprise, mind going black as to what you were even doing there in the first place.

Oh, why is it that being merely in his presence affects you so much?

His scent is intoxicating and it only adds to the hazy air around you, and when you inhale deeply, the smell of scented candles, soap and metal makes you feel dizzy. You will yourself to get your shit together and to focus on the reason you’re here for. _To leave all my sins behind me_ , you repeat to yourself, as you try to distinguish his enchanting face in the dark. You clear your throat, squirming in the extremely uncomfortable wooden bench, and your hands close tightly around the fabric of your skirt, your breath is already quickening. You feel pathetic and disgusted with yourself for not being able to control your body’s reaction even inside a goddamn confessional, and you have a brief thought that maybe your mother was right. Maybe trying to save your soul was useless.

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

You swallow thickly, rubbing your thighs together, mimicking his movements as you cross yourself too. His voice is as passionate as it is in his sermons, but it’s quieter, more intimate, and it resonates within you, going straight to your pussy as quickly as it leaves his mouth, and you quiver. You capture your bottom lip with your teeth and try to calm down, exhaling as you answer him with a low and throaty “forgive me father, for I have sinned”, you pause, joining your hands and lacing your fingers together, clasping it right in front of your lips, your eyes watching his shadows “It has been fifteen years since my last confession.”

The creaking sound that comes from his side indicates his movement, and he doesn’t answer you right away. You can even sense his hesitancy, but you’re not sure if it’s because he’s surprised with how long it has been since your last confession, or if he recognizes your voice. Either way, he recomposes fast, answering in the same calm and collected tone that was so hard to read.

“You are blessed, for God is with you.”

_His voice._

There’s something particularly erotic about being blessed by father Barnes. Something to do with a kind-hearted, pure man taking upon himself the responsibility to bless you, to purify your soul, to help you make amends for an entire life of sin, a man that has been the victim of your suggestive flirtations and provocations, of your perverse desire to drive him away from his vocation but invited you to confess anyway, because the goodness of his heart is stronger than temptation.

Your eyes close almost instantly. Your mouth is dry, and it opens a few times, only for you to close it again because you’re not really sure of how to start this. You know for a fact that the act of confession entails opening your heart and being honest with not only the priest, but with God. However, you can’t really do anything without being honest to yourself. Your depraved obsession with father Barnes isn’t the only thing tainting your soul. You are a woman on the run, trying to escape a lifetime of mistakes and ghosts that will probably haunt you forever, and it has been a very long time since the sickness of guilt churning in your stomach has stopped you from doing something. There’s too much to be forgiven.

You consider lying for a brief second, but as you search for father Barnes’s face, covered by darkness and shadows, you decide against it. Your hands are closed tightly around your skirt, and you don’t even notice that they’re being pushed up slowly, your knees and thighs now exposed to the stuffy air of the confessional. It’s only after father Barnes clears his throat to get your attention that you realized that you were lost in the moment, and you open your eyes again, releasing the shaky breath you didn’t even notice you were holding.

“I, uh…” you stop, and risk looking at him again, but there’s no indication of movement from his side of the booth. You swallow the lump in your throat. “I have been living a life of pride, father” you mewl, voice barely coming above a whisper. A thunder cracks outside, and your hands are trembling. “I have forgotten of how little and insignificant I am before God, and that led me into years of sin.”

Father Barnes lets a noise from the back of his throat, sounding almost surprised, as if your confession it’s not really what he was expecting.

“You are here now” he argues, and now his tone has a little bit of nervousness, but it is still warm and understanding. Your squirm in your seat, and a rush of cool air hits the already slick patch in your underwear, your skirt gathered around your hips already, your knees parted.

“If you seek forgiveness, it means that you understand that God is higher than you.”

You cringe, his words twisting in your gut like a dagger.

The ugly, perverted truth is that God is not even in your mind right now.

Just _him_ , the man that stars in all of your fantasies also happens to be the man who’s supposed to save you from them.

The next thing you want to say is “I’m not here for Him”, but you do your best to ignore the sentiment along with the persistent heat between your thighs, as you tell him “you’re right, father”, your voice barely out.

He calmly asks you to continue, and you take a deep breath.

“I’ve been doing a lot of bad things. But mostly, I have been _impure_.”

His breath catches in his throat.

“I’m sorry?”

Your legs are spread now, the fabric of your skirt is gathering around your hips, and your fingers are squeezing the skin of thighs, hard, your knuckles turning white with the effort of your wavering self-control.

There’s only silence now, except for your heavy breathing and from the occasional creaking sound of his chair on the other side. You don’t know how, but you can _feel_ his eagerness, even if there’s not enough light to see anything but the outline of his face, there’s an undeniable heat radiating from him. You can’t stop thinking about his eyes and how they changed after that day whenever he looked at you, icy blue, filled with curiosity and temptation, and no matter how much he tried to hide, you could tell exactly how affected he was by your mere presence.

“Father, I can’t…” your whisper to him, and you’re not even sure if he can hear you over the rain outside or over your hitching breath, but you continue:

“My sins are filthy, depraved, disgusting. I am not worthy of forgiveness.”

He doesn’t say anything, or makes any noise.

You don’t know what to make of his hesitancy, and use that pause to kick yourself mentally for even coming here in the first place.

He definitely heard you, if his silence is anything to go by. He mutters something to himself after what feels like forever, and you don’t really understand, but it sounds a lot like “ _Jesus Christ”_ , and you bite your lip. Your legs are spread open for him, your hands gripping your thighs, waiting for him to answer you and it’s hard for you to concentrate on anything other than your throbbing pussy or your heart pounding in your ear.

 _It takes two to tango_.

This was his chance to back out and send you away forever, maybe the humiliation of rejection will throw a cold bucket over your perverse cravings. Hopefully.

 _Come on, God,_ you whisper bitterly, throwing a glance at the cross hanged on top of the screen. _Thy will be fucking done on Earth as it is in heaven._

Another thunder cracks outside. There’s a creaking sound on his side, and father Barnes answers you, but this time, his voice comes out as a growl, much more lower and hot.

_“Tell me.”_

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave a comment and follow me on tumblr! @radmerrmaid


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry for taking so long to write this, the last couple of months have been crazy, this chapter was a little hard to write mostly because I'm too damn insecure but reading your messages has motivated me to continue! Thank you!

 

 

In some distant corner of your mind, the one still capable of any coherent thought and action, you register to yourself that, in the long list of fucked up stuff you have done ever since you knew what fucked up meant, _this_ , undoubtedly, takes the cake.

It’s too late to back out though, but to respect the sanctity of the holy ground you’re standing in and be honest with yourself and with God, you have to admit that nothing in this world or in the spiritual one can make you stop and give up now. Not when you are already inside the confessional, legs spread wide, skirt hiked up around your hips, your cheeks flushed pink, want and greed and _shame_ burning like Hell was inside of you, desperate to feel something other than your own fingers touching your scalding hot skin, craving the only man you shouldn’t want – the one that stood right in front of you, hidden completely from your sight and separated from you by a wooden screen and a moral barrier that became thinner by the second, starting when you entered the small room with every intention of corrupting father Barnes, and he answered by allowing you, by _asking_ you to tell him exactly how bad and filthy you are. The enticing warmth of his voice carried devotion with vicious intensity, knocking the air right out of your lungs and it took you a while to pick up the order behind his tone. The order to confess your sins, to tell him everything and well, you are a good girl now, and good girls do exactly what they’re told.

And damn it if you wouldn’t do anything to please father Barnes.

Almost instantly, your trembling hands close around the supple skin of your breasts, squeezing it together almost shyly, as if you’ve never done this before. They’re still covered by the soft cotton of your immaculate white blouse, and you will yourself not to open them, mostly because teasing yourself is as fun as it is torture, but undressing yourself inside the confessional would be too much, even for you, so you keep it on, even if the fabric itches uncomfortably against your hot and sensitive skin. Guilt is bound to come eat you alive later, but for now, your focus is entirely on your throbbing wet cunt, your whole body already turned into a puddle of thirst and desperation, all of it for the priest that sits inside the confessional, ready to forgive you for all of your immorality.

Yeah, _fucked up_ is a goddamn understatement.

Father Barnes clears his throat, an impatient little noise to remind you that he’s waiting; the sound sends a charge of anticipation almost instantly and before you start talking, you’re using one of your hands to rub your clit, warm and wet and covered by the thin fabric of your panties, putting just enough pressure to make you soak through it. You swallow thickly, and when you finally speak, your voice sounds rough and almost inaudible.

“ _Father_ …” you pause, because just saying it is enough to make your mouth dry “I’m having impure thoughts” as you talk, you can picture him right in front of you, listening intently, blue eyes turning dark, his cheeks colored with a pink blush because he is so _fucking sweet and pure_ and his pink tongue coming out to wet those goddamn full, delicious lips, “sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about certain things.”

It’s cruel, to tease him like this, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when your fingers are going faster, already wet and sticky because you’re ready for more. Just as you expected, he quickly responds, and he doesn’t even try to conceal his eagerness when he blurts out:

“What things?”

The mixture of sheer curiosity and hunger gravelling his voice actually makes you smile. It’s comical, honestly, how all of the nervousness in your body from minutes before had melted into a puddle of pure and raw lust, sending all of your reservations and your recently acquired moral code through the window.

“I think about seducing someone” you answer, voice closer to a whisper while you slow down your fingers. Taking advantage of his naivety and curiosity does make you feel like a monster, but his keenness works like the flush of alcohol to your mind and the audible hitch on his breath is _so fucking worth it._

“This person, this man… he’s a man of God.”

With closed eyes, you think about him, wearing the symbol of his sacredness on his neck, starched white against pale skin and black clothes. You think about father Barnes’s kind words, gentle smile and passionate sermons, full of love and devotion and worship. You remember when he blushed slightly when you flirted with him, when he was all nervous excitement while you were clearly hitting on him in the most disgusting way possible, inside of a Church with Jesus dying in the cross right behind you.

You clear your throat.

“I think about disgracing him, in the most _perverted and filthy_ way I can” a thunder cracks outside, the vibration of it reverberating all over your shaking body, “Think about turning him into a sinner, just like me.”

Father Barnes chokes on his breath.

You bite your lip to hold back your laughter, but the electric jolt that runs through your spine and ignite every single muscle in your body is impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t say anything for a very long time. Every second of silence feels too long, and you start to think that maybe you went too far. Feeling panicked, you ask yourself if maybe he started to see past his clouded judgement; he does see right through you, right? Then he _knows_ what you’re trying to do, and he’s going to open the door and kick you out for trying to led him into your twisted and sinful fantasy, he’s going to curse you forever for being such a _disgusting little slut_ …

“ _So then, each of us will give an account of ourselves to God._ ” he recites, a little breathless. There are tears welling in the corners of your eyes because you were expecting the worst, but as soon as the significance of his words hit you, a wave of relief washes over you, and the electrifying warmth is already pooling in your lower belly again.

He continues, still sounding out of breath and _too eager:_ “Go on.”

You want to see him, you want to look at his impossible blue eyes while you’re talking, the shame and humiliation that paralyzed you before fueling now with courage and depravation, and you can’t really guess what father Barnes is thinking right now, but the pure and raw _keenness_ in his speech is enough to spur you on, and before you can’t talk yourself out of it, you’re removing your panties and dropping them carelessly, settling down on the creaking bench again, one leg propped up, exposing your pussy to the heavy and hot air of the confessional, your fingers going down to _finally_ rub your clit slowly, _carefully_ , as father Barnes probably would do it, with his fingers covered by warm leather.

“I keep my distance, of course.” Your voice is much clearer now that you know you have an enraptured audience. “You see, father… I’m trying to be _good_ now. Ever since I got here, in this town, this church…” and you choose this specific moment to guide your middle finger inside of you, and the next word that comes out of your mouth is moaned: “ _You_ , father, you changed me… And I’m trying so hard not to be a sinner anymore” your finger is pumping in and out of you, slowly, your breath is quick and hot and your eyes close while your unoccupied hand unbuttons your shirt and cups one of your breasts through your laced white bra, your thumb flickering your nipple and you sigh loudly “but this man makes it so _fucking_ hard to keep myself away.”

He _moans._

You trap your lower lip between your teeth with enough force to draw blood, and your fingers are quicker now; the rain is still pouring strongly outside and if it weren’t for that, the sounds of your slick fingers going in and out of your pussy would be loud enough to resonate through the room, but you guess it’s not really a secret because you’re pretty sure father Barnes can smell you from where he is, the earthy and sweet smell of your arousal mixing with the incense of the room.

“I… _uh…_ ” he keeps scrambling for words, he sounds too out of it, almost as if he didn’t understand a word you were saying, but you know he did. You wonder if his cock is hard under his cassock, if he’s already leaking through his underwear, if he’s tempted to reach out and palm his erection to just give it a little friction while he’s sitting there, and if he’s feeling guilty and filthy and disgusting just as you are, and you wonder if he likes the thrill of being on the path leading straight to Hell.

With your legs shaking and your fingers moving too slow, you crave release but he is the only one who can give it to you, and you don’t want it to be like this, so you wait. Father Barnes stays quiet for a while, but the quick puffing of his breath is quick, you can hear it, and you know you got him this time.

The next thing you hear, right after another rumbling thunder outside, is the tinkling of his black pants being unbuckled, and his zipper being lowered.

Your pussy squeezes around your finger and your wetness reach your thighs.

You almost feel like smiling.

Father Barnes lets out a sigh of pure relief, and then a throaty groan right before his chair creaks out.

He is clearly, surely touching himself, just as you are.

You feel almost hysterical, and a low giggle comes out mixed with a moan. There’s a little touch of pride too, some twisted pride in _finally_ being able to make him cave, you know that it’s only a matter of time before guilt and depression catches up, but right now, you focus on the faint wet noises of father Barnes choking his cock like it owns him money, and his deep little breathy moans.

“I need your help, father” you moan, your back arching as your finger hit your g-spot briefly, “please, _please..._ I need to be good, father…”

He soothes you with “ _shhh_ ”, ceasing your blabbering mess and then he says, voice surprisingly steady for someone who has his cock in his hand inside a confessional:

“My child, there is no sin beyond God’s forgiveness” he preaches, his voice carries the same reverence as always, his tone makes your entire body shakes, almost makes your bones rattles with its resonance, its power makes you think about him saying your name over and over again, telling you how he’s going to ruin you, how he is going to make you never be the same again after he’s done with you, it makes you want to take it upon yourself to discover just what kind of noises he would make, to see if he would preach your name alongside God’s while he’s being fucked.

_“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”_

The moan that comes out of your mouth after listening to his reciting of the bible it’s obscenely loud.

He answers in earnest by delivering a hard stroke on his cock and saying, loud and clear enough for you to hear even over the thunderous rain.

_“Fuck.”_

It’s the first time you ever hear a priest swear, the breathy word that comes out of his mouth is like the singing of angels to your ears, sending you into a cloudy haze of pleasure and anticipation.

You’re not even sure if what it’s happening is real or not, you do feel hyper aware of how insane and _wrong_ all of this is, that this wasn’t supposed to happen, not even as a crazy scenario you came up with within the darkest corner of your mind, but god damn it, you could stop right now, not even if you tried to. You’re breathing quickly and shaking like a leaf when your hands start to unbutton your shirt, your skin is sticky with sweat and hot with desire, and you whimper, eager and desperate:

“Tell me what I need to do to be forgiven, father.”

Something changes in the air; from the moment you walked in, everything felt too sexual, from the strong scent of incense and wood to the itchy fabric of your skirt brushing against your sensitive thighs. You walked into the wilderness to tempt him, you took him to the highest of mountains and offered him yourself.

And father Barnes takes it.

He doesn’t say anything for some time, but the noises coming from his side, the heat coming from him and the shift of the power dynamics tells you what you need to know; he’s settling into his chair, making himself comfortable, preparing.

He’s in charge now.

“My child” he whispers, warm and rough voice wrapping himself around you like a tight rope around your neck, knocking the air right out of you.

 “You have to earn it.”

You want to keep touching yourself, you know you can come just by listening to his voice and imagining him with his cock in his hand, because you know he’s going to take care of you. And you’re right, because after that, he says, voice rough, malicious and _predatory_ :

“We are going to pray for your soul, together.” he pauses, and this time you can _hear_ the clear sound of skin against skin, of his hand stroking his wet cock, and when he continues, his voice is strained and choked, “and you’re going to make yourself come before we finish.”

You whimper in response, your hands already travelling down your stomach, reaching your navel, stopping too close to your burning heat, the liquid of your arousal already smearing all over your thighs.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, father.” You answer, clearing your throat to start. The only act of contrition you can come up with it’s the one that your mother taught you when you were too young to even know what it meant. It’s been more than ten years since the last time you ever recited, but the words come naturally to your lips, smoothly as your fingers stroking your wet clit.

“Oh my God, I am _heartily_ sorry… for having offended you…” you almost feel embarrassed about how desperate you sound, but you don’t feel anything beside the deep heat burning hotly inside of you, the smell of your arousal mixed with incense is too intoxicating and it makes your head spin, “and… and I… detest…all of my sins” you rub your clit faster, breathing becomes almost impossible and your eyes are closed shut “because…I dread the loss of… _fuck…_ the loss of Heaven and the… pains of Hell”, in your mind all you can see is father Barnes, with his broad shoulders and kind smile and warm words and delicious pink lips, his fingers covered by leather rubbing your clit instead of your own and his heavy, p _owerful_ body covering yours, so small and fragile in comparison, the tips of his brown long hair tickling your cheeks; fuck, how you wanted to touch him… you remember when you squeezed his shoulder, nothing but pure muscle was under his black suit, and god _, his_ _eyes,_ big, as blue as the sky that you would never be able to reach.

Father Barnes groans loudly, a noise that is animal and impatient and you almost expect him to swear again, but instead, he whimpers _don’t stop_ as he loudly strokes his cock, you’re both following the same relentless rhythm, the slick noises and scent of sweat and arousal mixing in the air and only adding to your pleasure. At this rate, you’re going to come too soon and he’s not going to last either, so you hush up in your words, even if they come strained and almost unintelligible.

“But most of all… because I have… offended you, my God, who are all _good… Oh, fuck…”_ you bring one of your fingers to your tight pussy, your walls quivering around it and you moan loudly, gasping for air and slamming your head against the wall with a _thud_ , father Barnes moans too, he’s babbling, you can’t really hear what he’s saying but it fuels you anyway, his grave voice resonating inside of you like the thunder of the storm outside.“…Good and… deserving of all my… all of my… _love_ …”

“Pl-… _please_ , don’t stop…” he begs, stroking his cock and thumping his chair against the door of the confessional, sounding like he was about to come. “Faster, _sweetheart_ …”

The whispered pet-name comes just as your finger hit your sweet spot, pushing you closer to the edge, you bite your lip, feeling the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth just and you other hand comes to squeeze one of your breasts, thumb stroking one hard nipple while you’re fucked your finger in and out of you. Father Barnes moans over, calling your name for the first time and when you open your eyes, you see the glint of his metal fingers in the holes of the wooden screen, just the tips, the orange light of the confessional washing over the silver. You lick your dry lips, preparing yourself to finish the Act of Contrition, your fingers are going faster and faster, fucking yourself and stroking your clit, you’re so fucking close to orgasm so your words are hushed, but you will yourself to pronounce each one of them with the same devotion and worship and _love_ as James use to say them, but this time, you’re not praying to God.

“I resolve… with the help of your… of your grace… to confess my sins… to do… penance and to… amend my life…

You’re praying to _him_.

“… _Amen_.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the shockwaves of orgasm ripple through your quivering body, James comes too, moaning loudly and swearing all the way through it, and for a second your mind goes blank, making you forget what happened and where you are.

Both of you stay silent for a few minutes, the smell of sex mixed with incense and your clouded vision makes you feel like your hallucinating.

“I absolve you of your sins” father Barnes breaks the silence, voice hoarse and still out of breath. You almost jump at hearing his voice, and before you can do anything, he continues, warm and gentle.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

Your hands move automatically, your arms raising weakly to cross yourself and his shadow tells you he’s doing the same.

_“Amen.”_

The last word is said by both of you.

Fuck.

_What the fuck did I just do?_

You get up hastily on shaky legs, opening the door of the confessional and letting it slam behind you. You run through the corridor with eyes closed because you can’t even imagine looking at the image of Jesus or the Virgin Mary, you push the wooden door of the Church open, jogging until you hit the middle of the street.

The rain’s still pouring heavily on the pavement and you’re instantly soaked through your clothes, the cold water immediately lowering the temperature of your body.

And making you realize you left your panties inside the confessional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after the song Personal Jesus by Depeche Mode. See y'all in your part 4!


	4. chapter 4

Father Barnes is used to waking up in the middle of the night in a jolt, with blurry violence and death and sadness still running in his veins, nightmares and insomnia are things he is terribly familiar with ever since he left his old life, so by now, he just waits until his brain is clear, until he’s out of whatever hell he returned to until his breath is back to normal and then gets up to occupy his mind with something else, since going back to sleep is a not an option anymore.

Usually he’s awake only a few minutes before the sun appears on the horizon, so he sits by the tall glass window of his office, where his eyes are glued to the blooming flowers, bright green grass and tall and colorful trees, watching the leaves fly softly by the wind with the same concentration and stealth as he would have in a mission, watching a target move while following it with his gun, waiting for the perfect moment to eliminate it _._

But now, his only mission is to escape the dark corners of his mind; he still smells dirt and blood, hear faint gunshots and explosions, but he focusses all his attention on the large field of flowers that are only there because he planted them. The grass is beautiful and healthy because Bucky takes care of it.

It’s the only thing separating him from the dangerous _thing_ he used to be.

He watches the colorful emptiness of the garden behind the temple until it’s time for mass. Then, he spends his time taking care of the Church, taking confessions, serving the community. It’s the only time of the day when he doesn’t feel like he’s made to destroy.

It’s a calm, boring life, in an equally calm and boring city, the perfect place for someone on the run, and even if he hasn’t really been that creative with the name, no one has found him yet, and he doubt someone ever will; there’s a buried body out there somewhere with the name James Barnes attached to it to make sure of that.

He takes confessions from local parishioners a few times a day. He has already shamefully admitted to himself to not really paying much attention to the contents of them anymore; he doesn’t know if it’s because their sins are idle, originated from pettiness or jealously and other things typically human, or because he just knows they won’t stop doing it, but he hears it anyway, and he absolves the parishioner at the end, often letting them off the hook with kind words of advice. In his defense, though, even if Bucky doesn’t care about what they’ve been doing, he really believes that God forgives them, if they have benevolence in their hearts and regret their sinful actions.

He wonders how that must feel like. To exit the confessionary with your heart lighter, the weight on your shoulders carefully removed by God’s generous hands and your soul cleansed. He desperately wishes that it could happen to him to, but whatever he is, whatever he has done, its permanent, and it won’t go away.

Lately, it’s been raining heavily almost every day. He watches it fall, the water soaking up the garden, and he realizes that the change in the weather arrived coincidentally about the same time as you did, the typically sunny sky of that remote town suddenly replaced by dark and grey clouds that followed you obediently. James is sure that if it weren’t for your kind smile, gentle words and friendly behavior, any respectable local Christian would quickly identify the storm season as a bad sign, a warning from God that you shouldn’t be trusted. Father Barnes doesn’t believe that; he knows that if that logic were to be true, that town would have burned to the ground the minute he got there.

He sees too much of himself in you – it takes a sinner to recognize another one –, even if all he knows about you is your name and the low, desperate sounds you make when you’re about to come.

(Those were still echoing in his head like a bitter memory, bringing _everything_ back, the smells, the noise, the images…)

_And that,_ he laughs bitterly at himself, _is why you can’t never be forgiven, pal._

He tries to bury it away, to pretend it didn’t even happened. Really, he does. But the memories of what he did inside the confessionary the last time he saw you are echoing inside his head like a bitter memory, playing around in the most inappropriate times, every little detail of it comes back full force and he’s always unprepared for it, for the intoxicating smell of you mixed with the staleness of the confessionary, the sound of your delicious little noises melting in the pouring rain, the small pieces of skin he can see through the separation of the confessionary…

It instantly makes him breathless, and turns his cock impossibly hard.

And he also remembers how much of a weak son of a bitch he was, unzipping his pants and thrusting into his closed fist while you desperately asked for forgiveness while fucking yourself with your fingers.

He can’t help but think of how much like him you were, and this only adds to his mind-spinning fusion of guilty, confusion, and the uncontrollable and unsettling _want._

There isn’t any clue or indication of the previous occurrences inside the confessional. The last traces of what he did were gone by the time he was there on the next day; not one smell or trace of his actions were left behind, and it almost feel like it wasn’t real, another one of his vivid hallucinations.

Except for the fact that you left your underwear behind on the floor, they are still in his laundry basket in the bathroom, another thing to make sure he won’t forget what happened anytime soon.

Not that he can do it, anyway. Or even _wants_ to.

Your disappearance from all the services is completely understood, and quite frankly, something he expected it would happen. Of course you would never want to see his face again, after what he did. He is a monster, after all, a senseless and uncontrollable machine made to destroy, he can’t deal with his emotions and feelings and desires – so much that he snapped and did _horrible, filthy_ things at the first opportunity that was presented to him, no matter how hard he tried to resist, to shut down that part of himself who wanted to _take_ , it was useless, and he took advantage of your frailness in the most diabolic and perverse way a man could do it.

Why the hell did he think that taking up the role of a man of God would be a good idea?

***

The first thing you notice when you open your eyes, is the lack of the sound of the incessant rain hitting your window, and you realize, with desperation starting to run through your brain, that your somewhat decent excuse for not attending church service is officially useless.

You shouldn’t be surprised that the day that God choose to stop sending the uncharacteristically storm would happen on the same day of the long-awaited Church picnic. Because if there’s no rain, then there’s no reason for you not to put on your best summer dress and walk to the beautiful backyard of the temple, no reason not to be a devout, kind and beautiful god-fearing young woman, and not to be a disgusting filthy slut, hiding from the consequences of your actions.

It's been weeks since your encounter with Father Barnes in the confessionary, and the agonizing guilt of what you've done has been stuck in your heart ever since, its burden is enough to keep you from having the courage to attend the church, to stare at all those faces knowing what you did, not only to yourself, but to him. You disgraced the honor of a man of God, seducing him and making him a sinner like you, and you took pleasure in it. You caused the downfall of an innocent man.

And _fuck_ , if you wouldn’t do that all over again.

What kind of monster were you?

For the last few weeks, more than once, you contemplated the alternative scenario in which you packed your bags and got on the first train back to where you came from; to never see any of those people again, start over somewhere else, maybe a big city in which no one would even care about what you’ve done.  But the thought of going through all that adjustment again was too much work, and going back to your older life was completely out of the table.

And the thought of being far away from father Barnes was even more impossible.

You couldn’t be away from him, and _Jesus_ , you absolutely do not want to.

So you do your best to pretend. It’s not really that hard, honestly, you’ve done it before. You put on your best dress, swallow it all down – the terrorizing guilt, the creeping fear of doing anything wrong – and you smile and fake. 

Pretending to be someone you weren’t has never been hard for you.

You've never been to the Temple's backyard before, and the first thing you notice is how breathtakingly beautiful it is. It almost looks like a garden straight out of a fairytale, with colorful trees and flowers, laid out wooden tables and groups of people around it, happily talking, eating and just being happy and oblivious to it all.

Father Barnes is nowhere to be seen.

You don't know if the dramatic drop of your stomach is from relief or disappointment, but you shove it away.

It is surprisingly easy for you to swallow down all of the guilt, dread and agonizing anticipation and join a small group of women in one of tables, to laugh and talk like you are one of them.

Even if you look around every now and then to see if you can spot a person in particular.

You feel your stomach turn in disgust. _Not here_ , you think to yourself, sipping your apple juice and laughing at whatever it is the girls are saying, _not in front of them_. Even with them shoved deep down into the crevices of your mind, images of what happened the last time you've been there keep escaping and projecting them behind your eyes, and you try to focus on the conversation, even if all you start think is father Barnes deep and gravelly voice coming across from you.

“What about you, (Y/N)? How do you feel about him?”

You feel all air jump out of your lungs and your eyes widen.

Martha is looking at you with a smile, and you realize that you lost the conversation for the last few minutes, and apparently, they were talking about father Barnes. All girls were staring at you now, curious as to why it took so long to voice your opinion.

“Well…” you start, trying to focus on a good neutral answer that wouldn’t give you away. You couldn’t possibly answer with the truth, so you just smile a little shyly. “He’s a little different from what I’m used to, you know?” they nod in understanding, and you breathe in relief: “I’m more used to older, conservative priests, but Father Barnes is really…”

Martha’s eyebrows are raised curiously at you, no doubt expecting you to criticize his methods or personality.

“He is what?”

_A perfect mixture of a huge piece of man, dangerousness and a sweet innocence that keeps me up every night, thinking about how I would love to ruin him forever._

“Different, I guess.” you answer finally, because you’re dying to exit the spotlight. “But not in a bad way.”

Your answer is clearly not that interesting to them, because as soon as you’re finished talking, one of the younger ladies start to talk enthusiastically.

“Well, I know it’s wrong, but he is so… handsome, isn’t he?”

_Oh, fuck no._

“He is! And he’s cute too, so shy and quiet…”

“But so smart and kind…”

This time, you lose the trail of the conversation on purpose, because you really don’t need any reminder of how especial and hot and wonderful father Barnes is, since that’s all you can think about 24/7.

“Hey, speaking of him, look who’s coming here!”

You really have no time to prepare, because as soon as you can focus your vision again, father Barnes is already in front of you, and the smell of laundry detergent and metal is hitting you like a punch in the guts, and you almost can’t hold the gasp because last time you smelled it, you were fingers deep in your pussy, coming harder than you’ve ever had as father Barnes did the same across from you.

As he spoke calmly and sweetly as always with the girls, you focused on controlling your breath, because fuck, he is going to turn to you soon and talk to you and you must play it cool.

When you finally get the courage to look at him, he’s already looking at you. It makes you a little breathless, to be so close to him and to look right into his impossibly blue eyes, to his full and so goddamn pink lips and still have all of the fresh memories of the last time you’ve been with him. Is torture, really, because he’s listening carefully to what one of the girls is saying, but his attention is on you.

It’s when you realized you’ve never kissed him, and before you can’t avoid it, you tell yourself that a trip straight to hell would be so fucking worth it if you’re going to kiss him at least once.

He keeps talking to them for a little while, but he keeps glancing back at you quickly, discreetly and shyly, his cheeks turning a faint tone of red when you caught him looking. It’s adorable, honestly, and you can’t hold the smile that plays at your lips when he looks at you again, eyes swiftly travelling up and down, from your exposed neck to the colorful skirt of your dress, and Christ, you really do have to control yourself not to jump him right there.

He leaves after a little while, and again, you don’t know if you’re relieved or disappointed. The sun is going to be down in a couple of hours, and a few of the girls get up to join the rest of the parishioners in a prayer to end the afternoon. You stay behind to watch from afar.

“I haven’t seen you in while.”

This time, you jump in surprise when you realize father Barnes is standing right next to you, _too close,_ his smell is intoxicating and his presence is everywhere, the pale skin of his neck and the shadow of his jawline is the first thing you see when you look up, and he doesn’t bother to look at you, but keeps his eyes on the circle formed by everyone else. He’s dressed all in black as always, but this time is a comfortable sweater instead of a suit, but the white collar is still there, only to remind you of who he really is and how wrong all of this is, and goddamnit, it only adds to the appeal. 

“I know you’ve been going through a lot lately” he continues, voice filled with wisdom and understanding, but he doesn’t look at you “Martha told about everything. She suggested that I should talk to you in private, to help you, to _guide_ _you_.”

Oh, but you love how helpful and sensitive and stupidly naïve Martha is.

The guilt doesn’t come at that moment. You know it is going to be there later, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when father Barnes finally looks down, and you see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his blue eyes shining with all of the things he’s conjuring up in his imagination, expression filled with promises.

“That would be a lovely idea, father.”

He smiles a little more evidently now, and he takes a few steps towards the group, but not before looking back at you, and winking playfully, making your insides boil.

“I have something of yours I would like to return.”  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hummm, I know it’s been a long time, but my life has been a crazy train. Last month it marked exactly ONE YEAR after I started this fic, and I truly intend on finishing it.   
> This chapter is weak and shorter than all the others, I do plan on rewriting it, but I wanted to post soon since it’s been too long since I updated this fic. The next chapter will contain a very long sex scene that I already started to write, and it won’t take as long as this one, I PROMISE!  
> I love your guys so much, your constant support and kind words has helped me go through not only writer’s block, but also a lot of moments of stress, anxiety and self-doubt. Thank you so much for everything!


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